The Last Rite
by orangeflavor
Summary: "There is only stone. Tall, cavernous holds of rock and tunnel and deep, still quiet. She must remind herself that this is where she will breathe her last. There will be no sun to warm her when she dies." After twenty eight years of the taint, the Deep Roads finally call to her. This is goodbye.


Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: This idea has been marinating on me for a while and I finally found the right words to get it down. I hope readers have played with the DLC of Shale the golem because she is an included character for a scene in this piece. If not, heads-up. Shale is a stone golem that is a possible companion for the Warden, uses certain crystals she imbeds in herself (removable) as offensive and defensive weapons, refers to other beings as 'it' verses the traditional pronouns, has a severe loathing of birds due to being a statue and thus continuously perched and crapped on for years, and is relatively snarky. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also, super, SUPER proud of this one in particular because I kind of wrote it while intoxicated. Haha. So please review and tell me what you think.

The Last Rite

"_There is only stone. Tall, cavernous holds of rock and tunnel and deep, still quiet. She must remind herself that this is where she will breathe her last. There will be no sun to warm her when she dies." After twenty eight years of the taint, the Deep Roads finally call to her. This is goodbye._

Meran Tabris sits up in her bed slowly, sheets spilling over her form, and glances out the bedside window. Morning light spills over the grounds of Vigil's Keep, filling the fortress with a hazy glow. Her thin curtains brush softly in the wind. There is silence. And there is calm. And there is warmth.

Something twists sharply in her gut and she is bending over the edge of the bed, retching violently onto the floor, her hand moving to grasp the edge of the nightstand to steady herself. She pulls in deep, ragged breathes, bile slipping from her lips to the stone below. She coughs, braces herself, then falls back against the headboard of her bed, a hand coming up to wipe at her mouth.

It is unlike anything she has felt before. There is something rotting inside her, something festering dangerously that makes her grip at her chest in barely contained fear. It tastes like ashes on her tongue. This putrid, corrosive taint that claws at her heart and threatens to overtake her.

She stops, blinks. A soft, fearful sigh falls from her lips. She closes her eyes, her grip on her nightshirt tightening.

She didn't think it'd come so soon. She didn't think she'd feel it like this. She didn't think she'd be this scared.

The taint seeps deeper into her bones and she knows what she must do.

* * *

><p>"Alistair, you needn't accompany me." Meran walks beside the former templar in one of the palace's courtyards. The air is bright and demanding. The sun glares accusingly.<p>

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm coming." He moves beside her, anger in each of his steps.

"You are a king, Alistair. Your life is not merely your own anymore." She pulls her hands back to clasp behind her. Her voice is soft but unyielding. It makes him angrier.

"That is a horrible excuse for you to go into the Deep Roads alone, Meran. And senseless. And…stupid." Alistair grumbles and stares ahead, because he cannot look at her when she says these words. Because he knows her. And he knows she will have her way. No amount of desperate or furious arguing on his part will change that. But it hurts more not to say it. To know that she will go alone and this argument is only wasted breath that should be spent on goodbyes.

She cannot help the small smile lighting its way across her face at his words. She stops suddenly, her boots silent on the cobblestone, and she feels him still beside her as well. She turns to him, and finds that he will not look at her. Instead, he stands rigidly beside her, his face turned toward the courtyard gate, his eyes hard, brow shaking only barely. He swallows tightly and pulls a heavy breath in. His hands fist at his sides.

She cannot express the pride she feels when she looks upon this man.

He tries to look stern. Fails utterly.

It makes her smile broaden.

"Anora will be cross, you know," he says. "Not saying goodbye. Rushing off alone. I'd never hear the end of it."

Meran cocks her head and leans her weight to one hip. "She will have to forgive me this one. I'm dying, didn't you know?" She tries to sound humorous and nonchalant but there is trepidation blooming in her chest.

There is silence between them for several long seconds and Meran begins to wonder if that should be the end of it, if she should leave now while she is still able.

Alistair licks his lips, and glances down. "Twenty eight years." He exhales disbelievingly. "This conversation shouldn't even be happening. It can't be you, not so soon. It should…" His voice threatens to break. "It should be me."

Meran sighs in a way that tells him it is not the first she's thought it as well. "My king," she begins, her voice both demanding and yearning.

Alistair's eyes shift to hers and he regrets it immediately. He cannot help this ache in his chest that wants to claw its way free. He cannot help the wetness dotting his eyes.

Licking her lips, Meran takes a step closer, her hands moving to grasp at Alistair's. "The taint takes us each differently. My time is now. Yours is yet to come."

He opens his mouth to object. But he knows as well as she that it is pointless.

"Do not waste it, Alistair," she whispers desperately. Her eyes shift between his, her mouth quivering now in a way that frightens her. She looks at him and _sees_ him and knows now what it means to regret chances never taken. She looks at him with the memory of years spent silent and fearful. Years spent with hearts closed and gazes turned from each other.

The blooming, promising potential of lives never lived. Never lived together. Never lived rightly.

There is the hesitant, open regret of her eyes on his, the subtle throb of 'maybe' and 'what if' and 'possible' lost on them. Too many years gone past, and too much pride between them to suffer the risk of vulnerability.

She blames herself mostly.

And she has lived twenty eight years without another to warm her bed. Not in the most basic and physical of ways. Because there are nights best spent with strangers when your past comes knocking.

But she yearns for the glances she sees pass between Alistair and Anora. She yearns for that second chance around that she thinks truly, she might not deserve. She wishes for the bulge of Anora's belly, slowing becoming visible beneath her gowns. She wishes for the erasing of certain memories, of painful and bloody miscarriages. She wishes for 'child' and 'future' and 'possibility' in a world that is rare for Wardens.

But mostly, she wishes all these blessings on Alistair. Mostly she wishes he dies happy and loved and without regret.

His fingers turn in her hand until he is pulling her toward him, his arms reaching around her form and she is burying her face in his shoulder, the leather of his tunic harsh and warm and familiar on her cheek. He sighs into her hair and holds her.

"You are certain?" He knows it is a pointless question. But he cannot help but ask it. Cannot help but hope.

She nods slightly, her head pressed to his chest. "You will feel it someday yourself. And you will know."

He squeezes his eyes shut, moves to hold her closer, winds his hand in her hair and does not let go. She feels his heavy breathing, shaky and catching, against her own chest. She promised herself he would not see her tears.

"And you will find me in the Deep Roads, waiting for you."

She says the words and he is undone.

The courtyard is bright and open and warm. And there is no one there to see the king cry into a Warden's arms.

* * *

><p>"I just don't get what all the bleeding fuss is about." Oghren grunts as he places his battleaxe along the weaponry stand. Stopping for a second to gauge the other weapons, he settles on a broadsword and pulls it from its place on the rack. "It's just the sodding Deep Roads."<p>

Oghren returns to his place across from the Warden as they each begin to move their blades along their respective stone sharpening wheels. She glances at him across the workstation.

It is Shale who speaks first. "It is going there to die, you dull nug-humper. Not to spring clean the darkspawn." The golem stands at the end of the weapon bench, several crystals laid out for molding on the table before her. She grasps at one roughly.

Oghren grumbles across the way, his hands moving his blade expertly along the whetstone. "There ain't much difference."

Meran only chuckles.

Shale sighs, exasperated. "The Last Rite of the Wardens. It should know this already, if it _is_ one."

"I'm not touched in the head, you stupid hunk of rock. I know what she means," he huffs, reaching for his nearby flask and taking a swig. "The Last Rite is just like any other Deep Roads expedition. You just don't plan on coming back."

Meran works silently on her blade.

Oghren belches unashamedly and places his flask back on the table beside him. "Don't make sense to die any other way. All this moping and crying and draws-wetting your troops are doing is embarrassing. Tell them to grow some hair on their balls."

Meran only smiles softly at the old dwarf.

"It could do with some hair on its _head_," Shale chuckles as she works.

"You're not looking too sharp yourself there." Oghren swings a self-satisfied grin Shale's way. "Is that mold growing off your shoulder there or just pigeon dung?"

Shale tries to turn her neck sharply to eye the patch Oghren motions to, only to find her hulking stone mass unable to move so flexibly. Oghren laughs beside them and Shale turns back to him. Meran imagines it is Shale's attempt at narrowing eyes. There is a low growl emitting from the golem when Meran intervenes.

"I did not ask you two here to fight. I have a request of you."

Her two former companions look to her, their argument forgotten instantly. They will not say it but there is pain lingering beneath the surface. A pain neither of them knows how to voice unless it is laughing or scathing or drunken. So they stop. And they listen. And they know they will do anything she asks. It is not something they question. It is just something they know.

Meran stops the motion of her blade against the whetstone to watch the two. She places the sword aside and turns, her elbows coming to rest atop the wooden tabletop. "I am passing down my command. I have chosen you Oghren. And Shale, I need you to assist him."

The golem eyes Meran silently and Oghren stops his own sharpening of his blade.

"Well I'll be a deepstalker's uncle," the dwarf laughs. "The taint's driven you mad already, woman."

Meran pulls in a deep breath. "I've already passed my recommendation to Kalder. He approved, and the regiment is yours now."

Oghren scoffs, taking another swig from his flask, this time longer. "Kalder's a bleedin' idiot. And too young to be Warden-Commander of sodding Ferelden."

"I stepped down for a reason, Oghren. We need new blood. My time is ending, friend." She says it with a certainty and a resignation that burrows deep into him, makes his skin itch, makes him grind his teeth in desperate denial.

"Well, then, this old dwarf ain't the best choice either."

"Oghren…"

"What about Zevran? That slippery blighter hasn't left your side in twenty eight years. The troops know him. They respect him, ancestors know why." He rolls his eyes at the thought.

Meran eyes him softly. "He is…not one of us. I could never place a Warden's responsibility on any other than another Warden."

Oghren leans back in his chair and throws a thumb in Shale's direction. "Well, this ugly piece of scenery ain't truly a Warden either."

Shale finally speaks, her tone reflecting little amusement. "This 'ugly piece of scenery' will sit on its head if it continues."

Oghren waves the golem off dismissively, chuckling.

Meran folds her hands together and sighs, continuing. "It is different. You have both chosen this path, each pursued this life."

A protest rumbles in the dwarf's throat. "And Zev didn't?"

Meran quiets momentarily, and she cannot think too long on it or she will never face the Deep Roads as she must. Untethered. Resolute. Without regret. "Zevran never wanted to be a Warden. This life came to him not because he chose it but…" She swallows thickly, watches her hands as they begin to tremble in their grasp atop the table. Her voice is filled with an ache she cannot control. "Because he chose _me_."

Her former companions watch her silently, breathing heavily, anxiously.

Meran attempts a smile as she raises her gaze to them. But it is weak, and faltering, and tells of fear she will not say aloud. "And I could never burden him with this. It is not his duty. Zevran…" She pauses, rolls the words along her tongue as though they will become easier in time. "Zevran should be free. Free of this responsibility. Free of me." She does not move her eyes from them, watching them expectantly.

Oghren runs a hand along the back of his neck, sighing. He looks to Shale. The golem is still watching Meran, unreadable. She takes a hulking step closer to the elf and stands before her, steadfast. "I will do this for it."

Meran can only show her thanks in the softening of her eyes, the shakiness of her resulting smile, the slow, grateful nod. She looks to Oghren.

Grumbling loudly, Oghren stands from his chair and moves to place his blade back along the rack. His back is to the elf. His eyes are not ready to reach her. And he will not let her see him like this. "Aye. I'll do it."

She breathes a soft sigh of relief.

"Ancestors know why you'd leave any lives in my hands, you daft woman."

Her voice reaches him from across the room. "I trust no one else more."

Something constricts harshly in his chest at the admission. Oghren hangs his head, his arms stiff beside him. "Damn foolish surfacer."

Shale watches him knowingly.

* * *

><p>"The bill is settled." Zevran strides into Meran's room at the dwarven inn and drops the satchel of coins on the nearby nightstand.<p>

Meran sits on one of the beds, bending over her legs to untie the shin-guards of her leather boots. She looks up and smiles. "Thank you." Sighing, she finishes removing the boots and pulls her hands back to lean on the bed.

"You know," Zevran begins, sitting on his own bed opposite hers, pulling his leathered gloves off, "you'd think they'd give nights free to Wardens heading out to the Deep Roads for the last time. I mean, you're performing a public service here." The elf sets his gloves on the nightstand and shakes his head. "Tch, a discount at least. That innkeeper's greed for coin is enough to make _me_ blush."

Meran smirks at him and laughs. "Nothing is enough to make _you_ blush, Zev."

He leans in wolfishly. "Only because you haven't tried hard enough."

Rolling her eyes at their easy banter, she pulls her legs up onto the bed and leans back into the pillows, her arms coming up behind her head. "It is only one night. I shall be gone in the morning."

Zevran sits silently across from her, watching her.

Meran sighs, closing her eyes to the peace and the calm and the waiting. Her mind wades through memories she is hesitant to let go. Her brow furrows in recollection. "I feel like…" She stops, licks her lips, and there is something longing and warm nestled in her chest at the remembrance of her faithful Mabari. "I keep thinking of Kael. I think he would approve of this 'Last Rite' business."

Years ago, Kael had grown slow and aged and began to show little interest in her darkspawn battles. Instead, he could be found nuzzling up to new recruits, fattening himself up in the Keep's kitchen, spending nights in front of the fire at the foot of Meran's bed. One day, he did not leave her side as she moved through the halls of Vigil's Keep, attending to Grey Warden business, when she was still the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Meran had found it odd, but welcomed the attention, remembering times when they were near inseparable. Kael sat watching her that night, as she read in her armchair by the fire, until she fell asleep. And then he went out into the woods and never came back.

Meran thinks he knew, like she does now. He knew when death came calling for him. And he lived his last days happy and full and without regrets when he left in the dark of night.

Meran likes to think he went down fighting.

She finds her eyes wet suddenly and her breath quakes in her chest.

"Meran?"

She laughs softly at herself, wiping at her eyes and then looking to Zevran. "I'm alright."

She really doesn't think she is.

Zevran just watches her, his brow furrowed, hands gripping his knees tightly as he sits atop his bed. "Is there anything I can do? To ease…" There is nothing he can say that will not sound like goodbye. "Is there anyone you wish me to contact?"

Meran pulls in a deep breath and looks to the ceiling. "No. I don't think so. I visited Wynne's grave just after I left Vigil's Keep. Passed command to Oghren and Shale." She grows quiet momentarily, eyes focused on the ceiling. "I said my goodbyes to Alistair." Her lids flutter slightly, her breath soft and lost somewhere Zevran thinks he may never know. "I don't think it went well." She must clear her throat to continue. "It was…harder than I expected."

"He loved you." He says it so calmly, without accusation, without resentment, only in certainty. As though it is the easiest and most obvious thing in the world. For someone to love her.

She cannot look at him then. She only breathes softly as she watches the ceiling. It was a time long past, her heart too hardened, her gaze on anything but love. Some days she thinks she may have wasted her life. She wonders how others could follow her so readily. She finds herself more foolish than most.

"And Leliana? Morrigan?" Zevran knows when to speak and what to say and how to bring her mind from darkness when it is needed most. He knows how to keep her from drowning.

She glances at him, her expression hollow and longing. "I haven't heard from them in years. I don't…don't even know if they live." She turns her gaze from his.

He swallows tightly. There is nothing good that can be said. "Then perhaps you will meet them across the Beyond."

The thought brings a smile to her face that surprises even her. "Maybe. Should I be so lucky."

It is all he can ask for to see her smile this night. "And Sten?"

She furrows her brow, gnaws on her lip in worry. "In the Beresaad. There are few means to reach him." Her answer is short and purposeful.

But Zevran knows Meran. Knows that if he asks further about Sten then she will crumble. It is not something he claims to understand. She speaks the least about Sten, but there is something more to be seen in her eyes, in her movements, in the silent expression of trust that she displays when in the Qunari's presence.

He does not ask her more.

"And your father? Your cousin?"

Meran sighs deeply, pulls her mouth into a hard frown. "I have made peace with my family." Her eyes are on his suddenly. "I have said my goodbyes to this world." She pushes herself up and moves to swing her legs over the bed. She sits there, motionless for a moment, until she moves to stand and walks to the vanity at the end of the bed. Zevran watches her sit down, watches her pull her long dark braid over her shoulder and finger it lightly as she watches the mirror. There are wrinkles at her eyes she hadn't noticed before, a light dullness to the dark shimmer of her hair, a soft yielding to her skin where it used to be taut and smooth and sun-kissed. She watches her reflection in the mirror and her lip begins to tremble. So young. So young and not ready and too soon. There is so much left of the world she wants to see. So much left of herself she wants to know. So much left of love she hasn't been brave enough to risk. She turns in her chair to watch Zevran.

He looks at her like she is everything worth loving.

She must close her eyes before the tears start.

"Twenty eight years."

His voice catches her attention and she opens her gaze to him once more.

He smiles, and it is achingly reminiscent of years she is desperately trying to let go. "Twenty eight years, and you are still the most beautiful woman I have ever met."

She cannot do this. Not now. She stands and walks just past him toward her own bed. There is laughter in her voice that even she can tell is a poor mask. "Twenty eight years and you are still playing games."

He moves before she has time to react. His hand catches her wrist as he rises from his seat and holds her in the space between their beds. One hand linked around the delicate skin of her wrist, the other urgent on her waist. He has her turned to him before she can school her features into impassiveness. He catches the slight flicker of need in her eyes, catches the barely-there quiver of her lip that tells him she knows what she is losing, and loses it still. Her eyes shift slowly up to his, his breath hot on her cheeks. Something in her aches with regret.

His voice is breathless and needy in the space between them. "It is not a game to me, Meran."

She closes her eyes to his words.

"Never with you."

She is trembling without realizing, her head beginning to shake, her arms pushing weakly from him. "I can't."

He does not let her go. His grip tightens on her wrist and his hand at her waist moves to her chin to raise her gaze to his. "Meran."

She exhales shakily and does not turn her eyes from him. There is everything of apology and need and sincerity to her gaze. She nods slightly, tears fresh on her lids. "I know," she breathes quietly.

He is breaking already, his brows furrowed, his breath sharp and scared in his chest, his eyes pleading on hers.

"I know," she repeats, nodding, her words caught in her throat, shattering, aching, dying.

He takes a step toward her. "Let me go with you."

Something still strong in her makes her break from him them. She pulls in a single deep breath and turns her gaze from him, pulls her chin softly from his grasp.

He watches her, his hand retreating, hesitant.

"No."

He stares at her, breathing hard. His touch encircling her wrist burns.

She wipes a hand across her eyes and sniffs loudly. "No. It wouldn't be right."

"Nothing is right unless I am with you." He says the words without realizing.

She must steel herself before she can continue. He is too close. It is too much to ask her to be strong at this moment. She pulls her hand from him as well and stills. She must take a sobering breath in before she can face him. When she turns, her eyes are steady and resolute and purposeful. "This is my journey. I _need_ to do this. I can feel this taint inside me," she grasps at her chest and holds tight, "churning and growing and rotting me from the inside out."

He knows this. He knows but he cannot be anything but what he is at this moment. Hurt and desperate and so deep in love he cannot remember how to live without her.

"I need to end it," she breathes. "I need to end it while I am still strong enough to end it myself. And I cannot take you with me."

His eyes graze the floor. He takes a deep shuddering breath. His chest hurts. It hurts in ways he has never felt before. He didn't think it'd be so hard.

"I _need_ to do this, Zev." Her words cradle him as she moves her hands into his hair, as they grasp his neck to hold him to her. "And I cannot end it rightly, no doubts, no regrets, no hesitation, if I know you are there." Her voice breaks into a whisper that sweeps across his skin with a tenderness he has yearned for for years. "If you are with me, I will not be strong enough to do what I must."

Zevran squeezes his eyes shut, raises his hands to hold hers in his hair. Tries to wrap his fingers through hers in a needful, desperate measure of certainty he has to feel.

"I know-" His voice breaks then, and he must stop and swallow down that painful throb of loss before he can continue. "I know we have kept…separate bedmates and lovers and partners through the years but…"

He thinks it may be too much to hope. And he cannot finish until she moves her forehead to lean against his, until their breathes are caught together in some tangled, exhilarating mess of need.

He swallows. Pushes words to his tongue that he knows he could not forgive himself for silencing. "But it has always been you, Meran. Always you. Always…_you_."

Tears are fresh on her lids, her body shaking, so close to his.

"Please…"

There is a fearfulness in his voice that she has never heard before, and she cannot be silent any longer.

"Please tell me I was not alone. Tell me I spent twenty eight years with someone who loved me just as desperately and helplessly as I loved them."

Her lips are on his in answer, her warmth sudden and urgent and helpless. There is everything impossible about their touch. They reach for each other and know that it will never be enough, this filling and desperate and necessary moment. There is everything of deep-seated longing in them. Everything inevitable. Everything hopeless. He can taste her tears on her lips.

She breaks away quickly, her breath still filling his mouth and she is nodding fervently and helplessly and with everything of herself. "You were not alone."

He shakes as he holds her.

"I was there," she breathes. "I was there with you every moment."

He moves his mouth to hers again and they kiss and grab and move together in ways that quiet everything around them but their heartbeats.

"Stay with me tonight." He must ask her. He must ask her this one night or he will never forgive himself.

She licks her lips and tastes the salt of her tears. There is something dark and regretful in her voice once more when she speaks. "I must leave in the morning. I must leave alone."

It takes everything of him not to break right then. But he nods. And he smiles. And he will not leave her with this darkness and this heartache when they have a chance at completion. Instead, he holds her face to his. He grazes his thumbs along her cheeks. He keeps his gaze on hers. He shares her breath and feels her need and accepts her wholly.

"Then we have tonight."

* * *

><p>It takes everything of her to leave the next morning. She pulls the pack over her shoulder and places one foot in front of the other, keeps her gaze on the path through Orzammar's Commons. The Deep Roads are not far. She will not stop now. She grasps at her blade, Cassendell, reassuringly. She looks up, half expecting to see the dim light of the sun creeping over the mountains, half expecting to feel the warm embrace of dawn as the world wakes.<p>

There is only stone. Tall, cavernous holds of rock and tunnel and deep, still quiet. She must remind herself that this is where she will breathe her last. There will be no sun to warm her when she dies.

She is ready.

She is ready to greet the earth.

Meran rounds the last corner before the Deep Roads entrance and finds Sten standing there, waiting impatiently it seems, just before the underground entrance. He stands, arms crossed, Asala strapped to his back, and in full armor.

She stills.

He notices her and begins to walk toward her. She does not move. Cannot move.

He is before her in moments.

"Meran."

The sound of her name on his tongue makes her want to laugh deliriously. She pulls a hand to her mouth and chokes back the sob of laughter. Her eyes rove his face and narrow at the long jagged line of torn flesh over his left eye and part of his cheek.

She reaches for him unconsciously, her fingers grazing his healed scar. "What happened?"

He brushes her hand away quickly. "Calm yourself, kadan. It is nothing."

She huffs indignantly, and the feeling is so oddly foreign and so long-reaching and so achingly familiar. "Do not tell me to calm myself Sten or I will give you a scar to match this one."

He grumbles lowly and lets her trace the scar tenderly, curiously, lovingly.

Her admonishment of him is so natural she must stop to shake her head at herself. She pulls her hand from his face and stands to watch him for a moment before she speaks.

"What are you doing here?" It comes out more steady than she feels and she is grateful that she can still have this. Still have this false strength. She cannot last this alone.

His tone is gruff and succinct. "Alistair sent me word of your journey. I am here to accompany you."

She blinks. Once. Twice. She almost laughs. But she is still aching and lost and knowing what is to come. Her words are resigned as she speaks. "I'm going to die, Sten. I don't plan on coming back."

"I know. I will be there to ensure you die well. A witness to your kata." He says it so simply, so surely.

She releases a soft sigh, a half laughter that hurts more than it helps. "Don't be ridiculous. You-"

"Parshaara. It is done."

He crosses his arms once more, as though everything is settled. She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. "I thought you had a duty to your Arishok, to the Qun. How will dying here help that?" She looks up at him, and he is as stalwart and unmoved as she has ever known him to be.

"I will not falter in my duty to the Qun. You know not of my purpose. You cannot help me in such. But yours is a duty that the Qun can understand. Yours is a duty we – _I_ – can uphold."

She only looks at him. It would be too much to say that she understands him. Understanding has never been the bridge between them. It has been blood and battle and backs to each other when lives are in the balance. Trust and honor and silent belief. Whole-hearted acceptance.

She swallows down that sharp sting of fear and nods. She can think of no other way to go, but alongside him.

He nods, as though he has always known her answer, as though there was never any doubt.

She exhales a soft breath of laughter, a quiet moment of completion.

He opens his mouth hesitantly, and it is enough to unnerve her. "What is it?" she asks.

He huffs, almost annoyed. "Your people have burial rites, correct? I am uncertain of your traditions concerning honoring the dead."

The realization lights along her face, her mouth forming a quiet 'o'. She has not spoken to anyone about _after_. It has always been about _before_. "We, uh…" she swallows and stills her shaking voice. "Yeah, we bury the body. Hold a funeral."

He is suddenly sure in his answer. "Then I will bring your body back for you."

It is enough to almost make her cry. "Oh, no Sten. Don't…you shouldn't-" Her voice drops and she furrows her brows, taking a solid breath in. "It is not worth it."

"And why not?" So steady, so sure in his words. She has always envied it.

"It…_I_ would only slow you down. Get you killed. I have made my peace about dying in the Deep Roads. Leave my body where it falls."

"As you wish."

It is strange to speak of such things. And yet not strange at all. Almost comforting.

Meran watches Sten quietly, then, "Just…"

"Yes, kadan?"

Her words are hesitant, her hands coming up to rub her arms in a way that makes her feel self-conscious and weak and unworthy of his favor. She moves her hands back to her sides. He watches, unwavering. "If I should linger…that is, if mine is a slow death…"

He knows her thoughts before she gives them form. "You will have the mercy of my blade, should you wish it."

It is almost enough to ease this fear from her. Almost. "Thank you."

Sten raises his chin, the heavy grate of his voice lulling and hopeful and easing to her ears. He speaks with efficient exactness. "Within the Qun, we place no lasting significance on the fallen body. For a true warrior, there is only the remembrance of their sword, the embodiment of their life's purpose."

Unconsciously, she moves her hand and gaze to Cassendell, the long sturdy blade that has been her partner and friend in blood and battle for nineteen years. It is hard to imagine her in someone else's hand.

"I would be humbled to carry yours back, to keep it with me. It may grant your soul peace, your spirit rest. It…is the only way I know how to honor you."

Meran looks up when he says it, watches how his eyes shift hesitantly, how his stance is tense and stiff and waiting. There is fear in his gaze that speaks nothing of blood or death or pain. There is the recognition of loss. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Felt in the deepest places of oneself. There is the humble offer of sharing that pain. The quiet, outreaching hand. The opening of one's heart in the most intimate and vulnerable of embraces. The acceptance of someone in dark ways that their language has no words for.

Meran looks at Sten and knows that she can share a death with him. Knows that his are the eyes that will keep her until she breaks, that will steady her when she is weak, that will incite her to glory she can only dream of. There is little else she can ask for in death.

Her breath is sure and steady when she breathes an answer. "I can think of no better way to go."

He nods, and moves to turn toward the path that will lead them to the Deep Roads. She catches the material of his sleeve in her grasp. And she knows no other way to be but to be honest and forward and vulnerable. "I'm scared, Sten." Her words are an intake of breath that burns her lungs in admission. This is not how she wants to end this life.

Sten looks back at her, glances at her hand gripping the sleeve of his uniform tightly, the slight quivering and shudder to her shoulders, the fragile, almost certain break he expects to find on her features. He turns to her.

There is nothing about this woman that speaks of weakness to him, nothing that marks her as worthless or feeble or undeserving. There is only certainty. Sure and knowing and painful in ways that make her sacrifice of herself every day. There is only a warrior's soul. There is only promise and steadfastness and the knowledge of oneself, sometimes in the most agonizing and vulnerable ways. But it is fully. And whole-heartedly. And without demand. It is the unflinching offering of herself in everything that she does, that humbles him. That urges him to greater heights himself.

She is waiting, hoping, fearing, when he moves his hands to hold her head, closing his eyes as he lets his words wash over her. "Ataash varin kata. We all die, kadan. There is purpose even in this. Let your death be a warning to the darkspawn, that they should tremble at your memory. Let your death be a presence none may dispute, much as your life has been. May you mark the ground upon which you die, that no man may leave unchanged, untouched, unmoved."

Meran takes a steady breath in. There is something that stirs within her, something that moves against her fear. Something that makes her breathless and anxious and trembling. She reaches a hand up to his sleeve and grasps at his arm. Holds him steady to her as he continues to speak.

"May your time here be remembered. May your words be heard. May your breath be felt. May your life have purpose. May you leave this world without wanting, without needing, without doubting. And may the Qun embrace you in death as you have embraced it in life."

There is no need to delve into the semantics, no need to dig in and uncover the simple, pointless differences in their personal beliefs. In this moment, they are both awed and reverent and devoted. They are both ready to face the Beyond, should it call to them tonight. They are both unafraid. They are both powerful. They are both victorious.

Meran opens her eyes to find Sten watching her quietly. Her grip tightens on his arm and he moves his hands from her head to pull her bodily into him. Her small, elven hands are pressed against the cool metal of his breast plate, her face buried in his shoulder, her sobs small and quiet against him.

He holds her tightly and steadily to him, breathes into her hair, speaks with hidden tenderness. "Fight as you will, kadan. I will carry you home."

She feels the dark corruption swirling within her, feels it fester and claw and devour. She feels her own slow dying.

She blinks away the hot tears and looks toward the welcoming gaping maw of the Deep Roads.

And she knows she will win this fight.


End file.
